Fragile
by Jess the Enthusiast
Summary: She was old, they all say, as if that small detail softens the blow, as if it makes it any better that his mum is dead.


Lily hears about it, of course, in the corridors, before and after class, and during lunch where Potter has been noticeably absent and his friends quiet. Practically everyone in the year is buzzing about it; or maybe it's just the Gryffindors but it just feels as if it's all anyone can talk about today. _She was old,_ they all say, as if that small detail softens the blow, as if it makes it any better that his mum is dead. She doesn't know Potter that well, outside of classes and meals, but she knows that he's a good laugh when he isn't being a complete git and just hopes that, wherever he is, those words don't reach him. Because no one should have to hear that.

She's running through the empty corridors from Gryffindor Tower, late for class, when she hears it – distant, broken sobs – and it makes her stop. But then, just like that, she doesn't hear it anymore. She looks around wildly, fairly certain that she knows the potential source, but doesn't see anyone. At this point classes have already started and she is alone.

Raising a questioning eyebrow, she looks to the portraits lining the walls – all of which point immediately to the tapestry behind her. She eyes it uneasily at first, wondering if she's overstepping bounds by even considering to go in there. She and Potter are by no means close – nothing more than housemates and casual friends, but she's heard all of the rumors. How could she not with the mouth on him? Oh she's heard it all – how Potter fancies her, how he's going to ask her out – but nothing ever comes of it. And why should she expect it to? It's _Potter_ for Godric's sake. All that means is a lot of talk and running his hand through his hair, and a nervous smile and bad joke here and there, but she's partly glad for it. Because she has no idea what she would say if he ever plucked up the courage to just ask out her like a normal bloke – but when has Potter ever been a normal bloke? – and that's perhaps what worries her the most:

That she has no idea what she would say.

But Lily tries to forget all that and takes a step forward, trying to do so with as little sound as possible. The crying hasn't resumed; she knows that he knows that she's there. And he's probably just praying for her to go away. But can't just _leave_ him, can she? It wouldn't feel right.

She moves the tapestry aside and is surprised to see that there's not only a passageway behind it, but that it's empty. However, she can just _feel_ his presence, feel it in the uncomfortable stillness of the air. And it suddenly all makes sense – how he and his friends get around, how they always leave their mark but never a trail. Secret passageways are one thing, but what if they have something else? Something that could make them even more hidden – perhaps even, _invisible?_

Letting the tapestry fall behind her, she steps into the narrow corridor, dimly lit with torches along the length of the walls. It doesn't take her long to find him, just a few steps, when her outstretched hand lands on what she thinks is his shoulder but looks as if it's floating midair. But she tests the waters by giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He doesn't jump, he doesn't blow up at her, and he doesn't leave.

Maybe he wanted to be found.

She wants to ask about the invisibility cloak, everything within her wants to ask, but she suppresses that curiosity and removes it instead. It surprises her how light it is, and how fluid it feels – like water – but she doesn't have time to exam it, as her attention shifts to Potter, who has never looked so small. With his head down and his shoulders slumped, he looks defeated, as if he's collapsing into himself. And she can only imagine what he's feeling.

She sits down next to him so that she's facing his profile and tries to give him as much space as possible in the narrowness of the passage. He hasn't looked at her yet, only lifted his head a few centimeters, but even in the soft light, she can see the redness around his eyes.

She feels like she should do something, so she puts her hand on his shoulder again, this time rubbing reassuring circles with her thumb – hoping that she's being helpful in some way. But she's never been through something like this; she doesn't know how he feels and doesn't know how to properly comfort him. Because there really is no way to make something like this better, is there? Nothing she can say or do will fix this – maybe she should have just let him have his space. Or maybe just being there helps.

Sitting there in the heavy silence, Lily begins to wonder why he's even here – why didn't McGonagall or Dumbledore send him home? But then she remembers what everyone was whispering about that morning: how Potter's dad is really ill, and has been for some time. Going home must not have been an option – one that was practical or desired.

It must be hard, having parents that are older. She wonders if he forgot that they were old and fragile – because don't all children consider their mother and father to be invincible, some sort of entity that death cannot touch – or was this something that he always knew would come, something that he always feared and dreaded? Which would be worse: to see it coming or to be blindsided? In those quiet moments, Lily cannot decide.

They've been sitting wordlessly for so long that it almost startles her when he finally turns his head to look at her. And he looks terrible. Lily has always thought him to be somewhat handsome, but he looks pale and drained. But worst of all, his eyes are lacking his usual spark; they're ghostly and he's almost unrecognizable to her.

"James…" she begins, unsure of what she was even going to say – because what can she say? But she maintains her grip on his shoulder and shifts a little closer to him.

"I-I didn't know," he tells her finally, his voice void of its distinctive energy, its life. And it's almost as if he's pleading with her, begging her to believe him. "I didn't know she was…sick. And I didn't get to…" he trails off, lowering his head and biting his lip.

"To say goodbye?" she asks quietly, carefully. And then he's nodding his head and the tears are falling freely and it's so bizarre that he's allowing himself to be so exposed in front of her but she isn't thinking about that now and is instead pulling him into her arms. He accepts the gesture and leans into her, crying into her shoulder.

They sit there for a long time, silent for the most part except that Potter occasionally gasps out how he misses his mother already, that he doesn't know what he'll do without her, how he hurts all over and could very well _die_. Lily doesn't know what to say so she doesn't say anything at all, choosing to instead tighten her grip whenever he makes one of these confessions – to hold onto him tighter, to remind him with her touch that he is very much alive and not going anywhere. A few tears of her own escape, but she does her best to conceal them, doing all she can to keep it together for Potter's sake.

He remains in her arms, even when his sobs have subsided and all that's left are some shaky breaths and sniffing. And then without warning, he's pulling back – and quickly – as if he's suddenly remembered who he is and who _she_is. And he's wiping at his face, his cheeks, and still obviously not okay but also really, really embarrassed. He doesn't seem to want to meet her eyes and she wants to say something but is, again, at a loss for words.

He grabs his invisibility cloak off the floor and stands up.

"Potter…?"

He still won't look at her. "Thanks, um, I, uh…I gotta go."

"Pot – _James!_ Wait!"

She tries to follow, tries to catch up with him as he exits the passage through the tapestry, but then he puts on the cloak.

And he's gone.

**A/N:** Day 2 of Jily Week on tumblr! The prompt was Parent's Death - hope that you enjoyed (even though this was sad; sorry about that). Also I really love this Jily Week thing because it's forcing me to write yayyyyyy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter; if I did I would have published a Marauders Prequel by now and forced WB to make a movie


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